Antebellum
by anamariewrites
Summary: The ugliest moments come before the wars begins. Fifty drabbles.


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And so begins my series of fifty drabbles requested by **Zhang_Sizheng**. Thanks to **CollaneR **and **Morgan** for their betas and all the input they have given me. I would like to warn everyone once that many of these drabbles are definitely mature, and I ask that my readers be mature as well. Some of the drabbles will contain dark themes that may include but are not limited to: **sexually explicit content** and **violence. **Various pairings and characters will be used, as well as a wide variety of relationships and lifestyles. Thank you very much for reading and I hope you enjoy them.

**Prompt Warnings: AU, underage sex, slash  
**

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**1. Percussion**

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The rain poured in thick sheets, the wind picking up discarded newspapers and throwing them until they stuck to Kakashi's body like wet plaster, getting pulled to shreds by his brisk walk and washing down into the cuffs of his jeans. Shivering, he couldn't seem to pull his jacket around himself tight enough, fingers cramping painfully as they froze, making them clumsy and nearly useless. Kakashi was exhausted; the sound of the rain lulled him until he felt like he were walking in a haze, listening to the slapping of his sneakers against the pavement, dodging harried businessmen with black suits and expensive umbrellas almost as a reflect.

The buildings around him were huge, stretching up into the clouds and reaching farther than that, higher than Kakashi could ever dream of being, and exactly what he wished for. As he walked, the buildings got smaller and wider, places of commerce and million dollar deals giving way to run-down apartment buildings filled with dirty children and crack addicts. The world seemed a little grayer, here; dogs barked and tugged against their thin chains, growling and preparing to fight, their docked ears and tails turning Kakashi's stomach suddenly and violently.

The whores huddled underneath the awnings reached out towards him, hands snagging on his sopping wet clothes as they pushed their breasts towards him and leered. Some part of him wondered why he wasn't reaching back, instead shaking his head politely and fumbling to detach their fingers. The one in the middle was gorgeous. Her raven hair was glossy and her lips were full, looking oddly lustrous surrounded by broken needles and used condoms. Any other day Kakashi might have taken her with him; bought a couple hours at a seedy hotel and spent the entire time blowing her mind, pulling her arms away from his neck and refusing to kiss her.

Kakashi could feel the chill settle right down into his bones, resting with his marrow and throbbing until it hurt to walk. The miserable rain wreaked havoc on his body, aches and bruises blooming anew from years past; a cracked sternum from a bar fight, a knife wound from his stint in Stone. Kakashi's left eye itched and ached, he cursed it to hell and back but couldn't seem to reach up a hand and soothe it. His old martial arts sensei had a saying about wounds like those, said that no opponent would bring death quicker than a knife forged with your own flesh and blood.

Fuck, his eye hurt.

His sensei used to say that most men don't realize the magnitude of their sins until they're dying, when their cries for forgiveness are lost in gurgles of blood and deep-throated death rattles. As Kakashi walked down the street to his apartment, shivering from cold and bone deep pain, the rain dripping down his body might as well have been his own blood. The cracks in the sidewalk would serve as his fitting grave as he lay buried beneath debauched dwellings that housed young men and young women with milky skin and legs that seemed to go on for miles.

He would exist in permanent stasis below those beautiful creatures with bitten red lips and inexperienced tongues that tangled around his, tugging, teasing, and tasting. Nymphs with childish smirks and the most erotic gasps as Kakashi ground his hips and thrust _just _so, fucking with a frenzied tempo testament to the sheer insanity and improbability of that slim body with a weeping cock and familiar black hair underneath him and _begging_ for it.

Kakashi had been dying; fingernails digging into the hardened flesh of his palm and the taste of mint and apple in his mouth, memories of thin hips and his own tongue dragging down a newly interrupted line of neck. Phantom hands had fumbled their way down his scarred chest, tweaking his nipples until the warning buzz of pain had switched directions and moved downwards into toe-curling orgasm and full-body shudders. The body underneath his had clutched at his shoulders, bucking upwards at an impossible angle as the petite mouth opened in an 'oh' of pleasure, shouting Kakashi's name in a voice that, even surrounded by the cloying haze of cheap beer and post-coitus, Kakashi had instinctively known that it was wrong, wrong, _wrong_.

In that small package of a beautiful boy had been missing mussed hair and calloused fingers, the warped, beaten skin of a man—his teammate—who had been crushed alive and survived to tell the story with half a body and one eye. The roughness of his voice and the familiar grooves and dips of his body were as far removed from the situation as Kakashi was when his yanked down his mask and pushed a goddamned _child_ against the walls of a whorehouse.

The hands that had shoved against him and pulled him closer had been undeniably juvenile, small and delicate with purpose as he had stripped off Kakashi's jacket and dragged him inside. Kakashi had kept his mouth over the whore's and pressed, licking and biting away the formations of a name that would have damned him where he stood. The kid had given as good as he got, sneaking his hand down Kakashi's jeans and grabbing his cock without hesitation, flicking his wrist and staring up at Kakashi with defiant eyes; he had moaned and whispered filthy things. Kakashi's world had seemed to fall in on itself as he focused on the dropped voice with startling intensity; listening closely, he had almost heard the lascivious undertones in pubescent arguing, taunting why-don't-you-show-me's giving way to the tearing of fabric and the hot press of skin against skin.

The stabbing pain in Kakashi's eye worsened as he reached his apartment and tiredly let himself in, fumbling with the door until frustration threatened to tear an distraught sobbing sigh from out of him. Without bothering to remove his wet clothing, Kakashi went straight to his room, pausing briefly to swear angrily at the large bulldog he nearly tripped over. Sitting on his shuriken-printed bedsheets, he reached over to his nightstand and picked up a pair of snowboarding goggles that he never could bring himself to wear. He held them and tried not to vomit, focusing on the sound of the rain hitting his windowsill and not on the throbbing love-bites scattered about his neck and torso. Kakashi wondered if Obito would forgive him, and couldn't for the life of him decide which sin he was more sorry for.

His sensei would probably have a saying for that.

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End file.
